The Stockholm syndicate

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The deadly game had begun. It was close to midnight, and Jules Beaurain started across the Grande Place. His manner apparently relaxed, his eyes were everywhere as he scanned windows, rooftops, doorways for any sign of the slightest movement.

"I don't like the idea. You'll be a sitting duck for their best marksman," Sergeant Henderson had warned him.

"A mobile duck," Beaurain had replied.

"And your men will be all along the route."

"I can't guarantee they see him before he sees you," the Scot had persisted.

"It only takes one bullet…"

"That's enough talk, Jock," Beaurain had said.

"We're going to do it. Warn all the gunners I want him taken alive."

So now they were doing it, and Brussels was almost deserted on this warm June night. A few tourists stood on the edges of the square, reluctant to go to bed but unsure of what to do next. Beaurain continued towards the far, dark side. Forty years old, five feet ten, thick hair and eyebrows dark, the hair brushed back over a high forehead, he had a military touch in the way he held himself, an impression reinforced by a trim moustache and strong jaw.

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